Seen Reading

by Julie Wilson

Herzog

  Saul Bellow

  (Penguin, 2003)

  p 105

  Riding the Rails

  He’s a young boy, about ten, moving his tray along the rails, considering the desserts. jell-o, red and green cubes, in a glass sundae dish, topped with a hardening dollop of piped whipped cream. Milk chocolate pudding in a glass dish, topped, again, with a hardening dollop of piped whipped cream. A glass bowl of creamy rice pudding with raisins. Something layered and spongy with a dusting of chocolate slivers. He lifts it and smells. Alcohol.

  A cuckoo clock strikes the hour and he turns to scan the dark wood-panelled wall. A bird slides in and out of the clock with each chime, while a lederhosened couple chase each other around its base.

  He looks toward the long hall leading to the women’s washroom, back to his table and his grandmother’s beige purse, tan overcoat. She has trouble swallowing, and she’s been gone a long time.

  READER

  Caucasian male, early 40s, settled deep into easy chair, legs crossed at the ankle.

  The Communist’s Daughter

  Dennis Bock

  (HarperCollins, 2007)

  p 177

  It Begins the Same

  He’s a boy again, riding his bike, its wheels threaded with raw meat. The dog soon catches up and nips at his heels, drool wagging from its jaw. He pedals faster and loses his footing, the flesh of his ankle peels back to resemble the soft interior of the dog’s mouth. He pushes his heel to the dog’s forehead until it whimpers into submission. He rides off. When he looks down again, the dog’s teeth chatter loose the spokes, some studding in his calf, trailing red ribbons.

  READER

  Caucasian male, wearing black knitted cap with Canadian crest, Sony headphones, brown cords, green plaid dress shirt, and black West Beach jacket.

  Slaughterhouse-Five

  Kurt Vonnegut

  (Dial Press Trade Paperback, 1999)

  p 48

  Pillow Talk

  Her husband surprised her last night. It was bright and soft, friendly and forgiving, and placed beside the toilet in time for her next treatment.

  She rested her cheek against his forehead and held him as he wept.

  READER

  Black female, early 30s, with shaved head and pencilled-in eyebrows, wearing all black, carrying black-and-hot-pink backpack, black-and-hot-pink padlock attached to zipper.

  Town House

  Tish Cohen

  (HarperCollins, 2007)

  near the beginning

  The Health Hustle

  He waits his turn in a line of young boys doing somersaults along a blue runway pad. Crouching and tucking. Standing, and crouching, and tucking. That’s what’s evaluated in Grade Six Phys. Ed., the graceful execution of a tuck and roll, or the ability to scale a rope to the top knot or hold a chin-up for at least a minute all indications of his well-rounded potential. Watching the girls lunge toward the pummel horse, which of us, he wonders, will sprout the first pit hair, get to second base, or deal the sting of a dodge ball against a girl’s tender thighs? He approaches the pad, rolls over his shoulder, called out by his teacher for an incomplete somersault.

  The music starts — “Pop Corn”— and the girls and boys form rows and mirror the disco-timed exercises of his teacher, his uncanny sense of rhythm lost on everyone in the gymnasium.

  READER

  Caucasian male, late 30s, with short brown hair, wearing glasses and blue-and-pink striped shirt, carrying folded-over black plastic bag under his arm.

  No One Belongs Here More Than You

  Miranda July

  (Scribner, 2008)

  p 91

  Swedish Berries

  The girl stayed on the hotel beach reading, peering up from her book to see if her mother was still talking to that man. They stood in the surf, his nipples breaking out of his white chest hair, thick and red, like Swedish berries, once her favourite snack. The man took the tips of her mother’s fingers while she lowered herself onto her belly and he floated her back and forth, offering constant reminders to kick and breathe, chin up and breathe. Then more insistent: chin up and breathe.

  When the girl looked up next, the man was sitting on the beach, clutching his foot, toes fanned like frill-necked lizard. Her mother stayed in the surf, each passing wave urging her toward shore. But the girl could see what her mother saw, that this man got too angry too fast. They’d dine alone that night. Whatever the girl wanted, she could have.

  READER

  Asian female, early 30s, with short brown hair, wearing glasses, grey jacket, blue collared shirt, and dark blue jeans.

  The Origin of Species

  Nino Ricci

  (Doubleday, 2008)

  p 251

  Mercy

  He’d never so much as buried a pet. He left the flushing of goldfish to his wife. The smell of earth alone after a hard rain turned his stomach.

  When the crate arrived, an East Coast delivery of lobster on ice, the note tucked inside the birthday card contained pencil sketches to help him through the process. His brother was a different sort, brave or careless. He wasn’t sure which. He would follow the instructions if only because more than killing a creature he hated ignoring a gift. He held the lobster at arm’s length, stroking its head as per the illustration, the lobster’s body falling limp within moments, completely at his mercy, harmless. Afraid that it was all too easy — was it all this easy? — he threw the lobster back on ice determined never to go down that dark path again.

  READER

  Caucasian male, mid-40s, with short brown hair, wearing charcoal-grey suit under open blue parka.

  Crime and Punishment

  Fyodor Dostoevsky

  (Dover, 2001)

  about one quarter in

  Clearcutting

  That morning, her mother had opened her eyes long enough to squint. She pointed a frail finger at the blinds beside her hospital bed. The lines, she said, were cutting the sky. Would someone please erase the lines so she could see it all?

  READER

  Caucasian female, 50s, with ruffled blond hair, wearing heavy winter coat, Baffin winter boots, carrying a bright floral purse.

  Wuthering Heights

  Emily Bronte

  (Dover, 1996)

  p 145

  WHAT HAD THEIR LOVE BEEN IF NOT THE EXCEPTION?

  Love Noted

  When she gets to page three, she’ll find a confession of love scribbled in the margin. Her heart will leap, even though she knows it wasn’t written by the man who gifted her the book; it was bought secondhand. It’s not his handwriting, but she’ll give in to the hope, just the same, because people don’t use words like those anymore, and how lovely would it be to imagine that he could be somewhere imagining her, standing on the subway platform, bouncing on the balls of her feet, having just turned to page three.

  READER

  Caucasian female, late 20s, with long brown hair tied back in a neat ponytail, wearing purple broad-framed glasses, a long red wool coat, and a green-and-red flecked angora scarf. She uses a gift tag as her bookmark.

  The Whole Story and other stories

  Ali Smith

  (Hamish Hamilton, 2003)

  p 1

  Ends

  After dinner, they sat at opposite ends of the couch, reading, and rubbing each other’s calves. He held a fist to his mouth. Must have been something he ate, he apologized. No, he couldn’t control it, he said, stretching out, the bottom of his t-shirt rising to reveal his belly button breaking into a hairy grin. She stared at it for ages, clenching and releasing her abdomen. Did he not feel that? That nakedness? She glared at the spot on his forehead where the creases had begun to tunnel into his eyebrows, the patch of sun-worn skin on his upper left cheek, that stubborn grey in his beard.

  She looked down at her legs, the ridges on her yellowing toe nails, a curl of purple veins circling the inside of her knee, and put the book down.

  When had this happened?

&nbs
p; READER

  Caucasian female, late 30s, with strawberry-blond hair, wearing brown skirt and lime-green blouse with sleeves rolled and buttoned at the elbow. Sunglasses sit in lap.

  The Kite Runner

  Khaled Hosseini

  (Anchor Canada, 2004)

  p 157

  The Young Lovers, Part I

  She wears her pistachio-green overcoat. White pants out of season. He sports a crop of red blemishes on his chin. They teeter an arm’s length apart, their heads within inches of one another. She carefully words a sentence he’s struggling to catch. She mouths it three times, four. The edges of his lips curl and she realizes he knows perfectly well what she’s saying. She cuffs his arm with the back of her hand.

  “Christmas is coming.”

  “Christmas is coming.”

  “Christmas is coming.”

  “Christmas is — you idiot!”

  He smiles that half-smile, something he once saw in a film. He really will turn out to be a sexy and attentive man, a purposefully sexy and attentive man. His smile draws in others and he’s suddenly self-conscious when adult women, rosy in the cheeks, catch themselves staring and turn away.

  She continues, “This Saturday? We’ll do it this Saturday?”

  It’s possible they’ll go shopping, where their hands will most certainly brush in the Saturday crush of holiday shoppers. They’ll share food court poutine, he’ll offer to carry her bag from the Disney Store, and they’ll stand face-to-face on the escalator, their first kiss floating toward ground level.

  READER

  Caucasian girl, 16–17 . . .

  Cerebus #300

  Dave Sim, illustrated by Gerhard

  (Aardvark-Vanaheim, 2004)

  p 12

  The Young Lovers, Part II

  Crammed together in the doorway of the subway, she looks paler than usual, her blue eyes popping neon. He struggles to toe the cuffs of his ski pants over the top of his boots, circling his shoulders, bundled too tightly inside his winter gear, as a bead of sweat threatens to extend its path below the nape of his neck to his shoulder blade. A wet mop of curls itches under his tuque. He flexes his ears, bobs his brow, anything to get relief. She finally traces a finger over his forehead, tucking a strand of hair under the rim. He feels her touch clear through to his belly.

  He shuffles his weight as the subway curves, rocking between her and the passenger wedged behind him, a gentleman pressed sharp from head to toe, his cologne crisp and clean, the pointed tip of his black dress shoes extending inches past any shoe the boy has ever seen. This man has no need for a jacket. He might even live in one of those posh hotels, one of those posh people who never need to go outside, a posh rat. The boy smiles sweetly at him, when the subway comes to a sudden stop halfway through the tunnel. The man lurches forward, placing the pads of his fingers against the boy’s lower spine. Stunned, the boy turns to confront him. And then the soft, forgiving smile as he takes in that there is something otherworldly about the man, before turning back to face his girlfriend.

  READER

  . . . with long brown hair and Husky-blue eyes, wearing pistachio-green spring coat (out of season), brown corduroy pants, and red sneakers.

  The Truth About Forever

  Sarah Dessen

  (Penguin, 2006)

  p 1

  Biopsy

  The night before his girlfriend’s biopsy, they decided to get serious about their health. They sat on the bed and he drew a line down the centre of the page. “Okay,” he said, nodding as if psyching himself up for some athletic feat. “I propose we divide the list into two columns.” His hand shook as he wrote out the headings. “Things We Keep,” he recited aloud. “That would be the good habits. And Things We Cut Off.” It would continue to dawn on him for an agonizingly long time just how remarkable a slip it was.

  READER

  Asian male, mid-20s, with short brown hair, wearing broad-framed glasses, pink collared shirt under brown cardigan, and purple paisley scarf.

  Choke

  Chuck Palahniuk

  (Anchor, 2002)

  p 43

  Cherry

  On her first date with the bouncer she’d worn a plastic cherry necklace, telling him it was crystal. He’d laughed and pulled her closer, his stubble stinging her chin. “Women twice your age come into the bar every night. Women with jobs and cars. But I could learn to love a girl like you. You have class,” he’d whispered, her first kiss with a man on full display in a mall food court. She wondered if Cherry Chapstick could be a real name, imagining a time when the bouncer might actually own the bar and she could go in any night of the week and drink for free and be called to the stage to share a song.

  READER

  Caucasian female, late 30s, with short brown hair, wearing blue striped sweater under black winter jacket.

  Star Island

  Carl Hiaasen

  (Knopf, 2010)

  p 5

  Love Will Tear Us Apart

  Their first Christmas together, they held hands in bed and promised that even if one of them ended up in a wheelchair, they’d stay together. If he lost an eyebrow to a grease fire, she’d stay. “And if you lose your hearing to a cotton swab, I’ll stay,” he’d added. They laughed and pressed their foreheads close, folding their gaze into shallow focus, knowing full well that no one knows why or when they’ll leave, that even joy can tear two people apart.

  READER

  Caucasian female, 40s, with long brown hair wearing bright red lipstick, black-and-white polka-dot dress and carrying a matching bag.

  How Doctors Think

  Jerome Groopman

  (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2008)

  p 101

  Divorced Before Thirty

  He’s kept his job longer than his marriage. It really hadn’t been that big of a thing, he’d thought, but it was big to him. He’d simply asked her to leave the washroom. (He never liked to fight while he was naked.) Then there was the click of the front door closing and the sound of her heels on the hall tile toward the elevator. Had she even locked the door? He’d rushed from the bathroom to the apartment door, his wet feet sinking into the shallow carpet. He peered through the door peephole, her shape obscured by the wide lens. Were they done talking? He strained to keep her in view. At the elevator, she’d adjusted her purse strap and rubbed her forehead. Was she crying, he’d wondered? No, no, darling. He ran his fingers through his hair and turned the doorknob just as the elevator chimed. Stepping out into the hallway, clothed in nothing but a towel, he saw her smiling, laughing even, as a neighbour’s hand reached out to hold the elevator door open. Fine, thank you, she’d said. Great, actually.

  READER

  Caucasian male, late 20s, with short black hair and beard, wearing black fleece, grey tuque, grey cords, and Sorels

  Half of a Yellow Sun

  Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

  (Vintage, 2007)

  p 306

  Flat

  The cat has commandeered the empty boxes and the bathroom window ledge, the only window in the basement bachelor. The bath fills while she admires the clean interior of the fridge. A lone bottle of beer sits in the crisper. Would the last tenant come back to claim it? Was it a housewarming gift? She decides for the both of them, twists off the top, and takes a long haul, opening the oven to preheat the apartment.

  Four mirror squares on the south wall extend the flat.

  She dips a foot into the bathwater, running her toe over a chip in the basin that’s begun to rust, then submerges her calf, winter’s growth standing on edge. The cat jaws his way through a piece of kibble, the only familiar sound in this new home. She sinks into the tub completely, places the beer on the floor beside her, and releases her ample belly. For how long, she wonders, has she been holding this in?

  READER

  Caucasian female, late 20s, with short, reddish hair, wearing pale green turtleneck sweater under white winter jacket.

  The Beauty of Humanity Movement
>
  Camilla Gibb

  (Doubleday Canada, 2010)

  p 122

  Side Tables

  Her side table holds her lemon cuticle cream, a packet of tissue, an eyeglasses case, and a bottle of Aspirin. His side table holds a nail clipper, a packet of tissue, an eyeglasses case, and an emptied glass of Scotch.

  Her book is in her lap, traded instead for a journal and pen to write with, a quick scribble to jog the memory tomorrow. His book is a collection of jumbo crosswords, resting on his chest. His head back, eyes closed.

  Her feet are elevated, ankles swollen and aching. His feet peek out beyond the comforter, his long frame never having spent a night entirely on their marriage mattress.

  Her breath is steady, pleasantly winding down. His breath has stopped.

  Her kiss on his forehead.

  Her body rolling away.

  Her hand reaching for his.

  READER

  Caucasian female, 60ish, with white hair, wearing square glasses, beige jacket, and purple scarf.

  Close Case

  Alafair Burke

  (St. Martin’s Press, 2006)

  p 254

  THE TEMPTATION OF HER ACCEPTANCE, A LURE.

  Sticks and Twigs

  The man beside her on the streetcar wears a long buckskin jacket with fringes lining its hem, the backs of his arms. He’s in his late 50s, face worn, a shock of spiky, bleached blond hair growing out at the roots. He hunches over his cupped hand, pinching marijuana sticks and twigs into as fine a powder as possible. He looks up at each stop, squinting at each passerby, then going back to the task at hand.