Estelle began to smoke. She liked the local cigarettes very much. She began to smoke about fifteen a day. Estelle began to drop specks of ash on the edge of the table. Estelle became less careful, and some ash dropped — by mistake — on the floor. Estelle began to be sloppy with her clothes, and dropped them on the floor. Estelle began to neglect washing her underclothes (she would cram them in the clothes hamper, and Bernice would have to wash them) as frequently as Bernice thought she should. This was the beginning of the trouble.
On Estelle’s part, she was a bit peeved by having to wait, sometimes as late as ten o’clock in the morning, for her breakfast. Mrs. Burrmann knew that Estelle was living in Bernice’s apartment; but Bernice had not openly asked, nor had she been given permission to have Estelle stay. So the longer Mrs. Burrmann lingered over her breakfast, the longer it took for Bernice to sneak upstairs with the two strips of bacon, a fried egg, a piece of toast (the colour of which was proportional to how close Mrs. Burrmann was to the kitchen) and a teacup of coffee. But when Mrs. Burrmann found out what Bernice was doing, she was mad. “Do you imagine that I am such a cheapskate, eh, Leach? That you could not bring Estelle down here, to have a proper breakfast with us, instead of sneaking up and down?” Bernice was ashamed. “But Mistress, I didn’t mean to give the impression …” Estelle preferred to be served in bed, on the chesterfield. She was spending all day and night in the apartment, alone. It was becoming a telling experience: a new country and boredom. She knew all the radio programmes by heart; all the commercials by heart; and many popular songs by heart. In a way, she knew Canada by heart. She would see Brigitte playing with her kids across the street, and Brigitte would wave and say hello; and she had seen the two men with the two dogs; and life had almost become unbearable, when one cold afternoon, she saw this white woman walking towards her (she was at the window), and then she heard her steps coming up to the apartment; and then she heard, “that I was just passing in the car when I happened to remember that you are still here, and I know how dull it can be, in a house by yourself, so I thought we might go downtown, nothing fancy, just to the campus and the library, and have a cup of coffee.”
That was the beginning of a great, true friendship between Agatha and Estelle. Together they went to the Museum, the Public Library, the O’Keefe Centre of the Performing Arts to hear Harry Belafonte sing, and the Russian Ballet dance, and to the Park Plaza Hotel to have a drink (“But you-all Canadians are funny people. Imagine going to a hotel to have a drink! Back home we have drink in a rum shop. But I won’t like to tell you what people back there go to a hotel to do, heh-heh!”) and then walked across the street to the Yorkville Village, which was really a shattering experience for Estelle: the freshness about this place, and the young people like rebels and the women who looked as if they were really alive and fresh. Bernice could not understand this excitement. “I don’t want to hear nothing ’bout no long-hair beatniks, with lice in their heads, eh!” The only thing Bernice knew about Yorkville Village was what a reporter of The Globe and Mail said about it: that a lot of marijuana was smoked there. Like the reporter, Bernice did not try to find out more. Yorkville was to her, irrevocably, a den of iniquity.
Sometimes, in the kitchen, Bernice would think of her life in Canada: how it had changed; the clothes she was now wearing; the broadness of her knowledge about subjects and people she never knew existed. She was very impressed by Brigitte, who told her many interesting things about Germany, about Hitler and the Nazis. To hear Brigitte talk about so powerful a man, made it very real to her, because in the West Indies, during the heyday of Hitler, she was a small girl interested in Frank Sinatra, and Hitler was no more than the swastikas of chalk she used to draw on the church wall. She never imagined Hitler to be a man. She was also very impressed by the wealth of the Burrmann’s. Once, Mrs. Burrmann sent her to the bank with a cheque. When she saw the cheque made out to Mr. Burrmann, for three thousand dollars, exact, she almost dropped the cheque. And this made her think of Mr. Burrmann as a very powerful man, even more powerful than Hitler was. She did not know him as intimately as she felt she knew Mrs. Burrmann. He never spoke to her affectionately; but he was never rude. It seemed he kept her at the distance a servant ought to be kept: with coldness and civility. He regarded Bernice the way he regarded his secretary: as a machine, to perform certain well-defined jobs. It was also difficult to get to know him, since he spent little time in the home. He was always working. On weekends, he was in the study, studying or preparing briefs — so Bernice imagined, until one day she found him lying on the floor, with his head almost touching the speaker of his record-player system which he had built into the wall; and with the lights out. As she remembered it, he was listening to jazz, a kind of strange noise, with lots of drums and cymbals and screechings. That afternoon, he seemed completely relaxed by the “damn noise”; and when he spoke to her, she noticed that his eyes were red and tired and distant. “That damn man is far from here!” she commented.
“How’s it going, Bernice?” He would ask her this many times. Each time, she was made to feel she had just arrived for the job; and he had met her for the first time. Sometimes, she would smile; and sometimes she would smile and say, “Betwixt and between, sir!” And he liked her to say that.
Mr. Burrmann really never felt at home, at home. Not even when, as a boy growing up on Palmerston Boulevard in the guts of old downtown Toronto, in the days when Jews inhabited and ruled that entire section bounded by College, north to Bloor Street, east to Spadina Avenue and as far west as Bathurst Street. He used to spend those days in a “gang.” Some of the “gangsters” were young “coloured boys,” sons of West Indians who had come to Canada to work as porters on the railroads, and as domestics in white, rich kitchens and homes. Mr. Burrmann was therefore acquainted, from an early age, with domestics. Bernice did not know (not even Mrs. Burrmann from whom he hid it; and to whom he never had the guts to mention it; and who was brought up in a more respectably rich and suburban area of the city) that he had been close to black people throughout his adolescence and university days. Something happened to him when he was fourteen, something which never left him completely, but which came up into his consciousness, periodically, like a badly digested apple. It would sometimes make him physically sick, as it had made him vomit on his clothes that summer afternoon thirty years ago, on the street which is now the main artery in the Jewish Market, Augusta Street. Once, during his university days, when he made a lot of money working in construction one summer, he took the liberty and the expensive fling of seeing a psychiatrist about it: It was about four o’clock one day, and some guys, me and five others, coloured boys from the neighbourhood who used to go to the public school in the area, well, we were walking through the Market teasing some guys wearing the paius, you know? earlocks, we used to call them pigtails; and wearing their foreign-looking clothes.…
How did they look?
…well, like uniforms, uniforms of mourning. Well, anyway, we were looking for excitement, as guys usually are — looking for trouble. This afternoon in question, the excitement was to be picking apples from the heaps on the sidewalk stands, when the Polish Jews weren’t watching.…
Did you actually steal any, many?
Yeah! a lot, and as we turned the corner, Baldwin Street, and just as I was putting my hand on a coupla apples from an old Jewish guy, he caught me and start giving me the chase: the old Jewish gentleman ran behind them, up Augusta Street crowded with afternoon shoppers, and knocking down stalls and stands and making the live chickens cackle and lay eggs in fright; and the “gang” escaped the old man. But one of them ran right into a large oak of a man who put his arms in the boy’s way, like a crucifix of maple, and when the giant got him into his arms, he closed them and held the boy until the Jewish gentleman came, and peering over his bi-focals that drooped on his long nose, he shouted, “That’s him!” And although he had actually seen Sammy Burrmann with an apple in his hand, he did not see any difference between Sammy and
Jeffrey, who was black. They never saw Jeffrey again. A week later, Jeffrey’s mother went into the Toronto General Hospital with her fourth baby at the edge of her womb, and she died before the baby was born, and before she was delivered of her travail. (The baby was given out for adoption.) That night, Sammy Burrmann vomited. But he did not have enough guts left, after vomiting, to confess to Jeffrey’s mother, or to the Jewish gentleman who he knew, and who went to the same synagogue on College Street, that he was the one with the apple in his hand. The other two black boys in the “gang” stopped stealing apples; and stopped joining “gangs” that had Jewish members; and they stopped speaking to Sammy after they found out that the court had sentenced Jeffrey to two years hard labour for his first offence. This heavy guilt on Mr. Burrmann’s shoulders followed him throughout his adolescence; a guilt he ended up by keeping to himself, since he had waited so long to confess it, or talk about it, in the first place. It was about this time that he decided to become a lawyer. But even before that, he had had other experiences of youth, with black people. He remained on Palmerston Boulevard, near the district that was predominantly “coloured” at the time, because his family was too poor to move away, as others had done to escape the “black scourge.” His father did not sell enough scrap iron and parts of metal bedsteads which the West Indians threw out at their front gates with other junk, in his horse-drawn chariot, to enable him to move. And when he died, Sammy and his two sisters and three brothers, and his mother were not left enough money to enable them to move north into what was fast becoming the Ghetto, the area of success. (If you look in the Toronto telephone directory today, you will see two other Burrmann’s, men, Sammy’s brothers: one is a musician in an orchestra; and the other, is a waiter in a bar downtown. Both sisters died of tuberculosis.) Soon after, Sammy’s mother died. When she died, the doctors said she died of arthritis and pneumonia; but Sammy knew she died of a broken heart and a broken love. He never liked his father. When Mr. Burrmann, Senior, died, Sammy laughed; and did not even miss a lecture at Trinity College, to visit the synagogue. He was free now to associate with the black boys he used to know at school and in the bars around Spadina. Sammy also had liaisons with his friends’ sisters.
His boyhood days never left him. They never wiped out completely, the taste left in his mouth, by the incident with Jeffrey. These things he thought about when his wife first introduced him to his new domestic, Bernice. His coldness towards Bernice was caused by these memories. The embarrassment that came into his eyes when she turned round once in the kitchen and found him staring at her (“You undressing me with your blasted eyes, you bitch!”) was caused by these memories. They made him retreat further into his already introverted nature. One Sunday morning, when Mrs. Burrmann had left to take the children to the municipal skating rink, Bernice found him in a clothes closet which was not used often; and all he was doing was running his hands on an old broomstick, as if measuring it. And once, she found him sitting on the landing that led from the ground floor mid-way between the children’s room and hers. She approached him, since she had to pass that way, and all he said was, “How’s she going, Bernice?”
“Mr. Burrmann, is you all right, sir?”
“Why?” When he looked up, and saw the concern on her face, he felt he had to say something more. He never knew that Bernice regarded him as a madman; and as a terribly ill-treated man, and husband. “Oh, I was just sitting here, thinking.” He said it without losing his dignity; and his superiority as master and man. Bernice just left him sitting there. (“That man, mad as hell, in truth. I hope he don’t come trying no damn foolishness with me.”) When she reached her apartment, she locked the door.
As the days passed, Estelle found herself smothered by the same triangle of existence that Bernice was restricted to — with the exception that the princess telephone which Bernice used so often, was useless to her, since she knew so few people. Once however, she did call Boysie to find out how she could remain in Canada, permanently (Bernice had refused to talk about it); and he advised her to get a child by a Canadian; or marry a man. “But you have to make sure he is a Canadian by birth. That is first!” Boysie sniggered, and Estelle hung up the telephone. But she thought of his suggestion for many days. Boysie came round once, to borrow two dollars from Bernice; and after that day, they never saw him for three weeks; and he never called.
Estelle was becoming worried, and bored. She remembered she knew two Barbadian girls in Canada; one lived in Winnipeg, the other, in Montreal. So she decided to call them on Bernice’s princess. Just as she was about to dial, Bernice screamed, “Girl, you crazy as hell? Them is long-distance calls!” Bernice showed her on the map, where Winnipeg and Montreal were.
But Bernice could not escape the image of Estelle’s underclothes strewn on the floor. In her mind; in the kitchen; throughout the house; whenever she looked into a cup or a glass, she saw Estelle’s panties in the bottom. Whenever she put out the garbage, she saw Estelle lying in the bottom of the pail. There was no escape. She had promised a long time ago, to take Estelle to the WIF Club, but because of the wrong way Estelle rubbed her, she deliberately forgot her promise. She began to spend most of her rest-hour period downstairs in the kitchen; and she would spend them mending, and darning things for the children and Mrs. Burrmann, which she did not have to do. When she was tired mending, she read the newspapers, usually two days old. Once, she came across a magazine, Harper’s Bazaar, which fascinated her. The magazine was exactly one year three months old, since its publication. She was so impressed by the photographs and the advertisements in it, that she threatened to stop her subscription to Muhammad Speaks and Jet and to subscribe to Harper’s Bazaar. She was so frustrated and weakened by Estelle and her attitudes (“Christ, all she has done since setting foot in Canada, is to moan and groan ’bout every blasted thing. She don’t even like the food I cooks!”) that she found herself drawn closer to the Burrmann’s.
One morning, the bubble burst. Bernice discovered that Estelle had used her toothbrush. “But I don’t see anything serious,” Estelle said. Both toothbrushes were the same colour. “It’s a toothbrush, Bernice, and anybody could make a mistake like that. Besides, I don’t have phthisic.…”
“Jesus Christ, look woman! …” But the rest of her anger buried itself. She saw herself strangling Estelle. And when she rushed out of the room, shaking with anger and the frustration of not being able to express this anger (she promised to buy two new toothbrushes next time she went to the drug store) it took her a long time simmering down, in the kitchen. Mrs. Burrmann came in and said pleasantly, “Bernice, when are you going to begin dinner?”
“You don’t see me resting, Mrs. Burrmann?” she replied, confusing the object of her hostility, and seeing Mrs. Burrmann as Estelle. But she caught herself, and added, “Soon, ma’am.”
“Is something the matter?”
“Estelle!”
“Oh, how’s she liking Canada?” Mrs. Burrmann had by now given permission for Estelle to live with Bernice.
“Fine, ma’am.” Bernice was ready with the smile and the happy face. Mrs. Burrmann read the face and the smile, and concluded that everything was fine. Drunk or sober, Bernice cautioned herself, mind your business! “Everything is shipshape.”
Today, Mrs. Burrmann looked fresh and happy and young. She lingered in the kitchen (touching dishes and plates on the counter, like a shopper touching fruits to see whether they’re ripe) and then said, “Tell me, Bernice, haven’t you ever thought of getting married?” The shock was so great, that for some time, Bernice actually couldn’t think. But she recovered, and laughed in her expansive manner; and looked Mrs. Burrmann straight in the eyes, and said, “Ma’am, I have put man outta my life, a long time now.” Together, they enjoyed the deceit of this declaration; and they laughed, and before Mrs. Burrmann left she rested her hand, her right hand on Bernice’s left arm (she was facing Bernice) and said, “Sometimes, you make me feel as if you’re my …” But she didn’t finish; there wa
s no need.
Spasms of affection like this one, helped to prevent Bernice from thinking too much of the pain in her back. The pain was brought on by tension, and the fact that Estelle hogged up most of the chesterfield, at nights. Bernice had to spend many sleepless nights in the chair by the window. Sometimes, she really preferred to sit there: she could see more of Brigitte’s private business. Once, she saw Brigitte in her room. And she saw the policeman, too. What she really saw was a man’s form. She could have seen more, but the lights were turned off too quickly. Another night, she looked down to investigate a scratching on the front lawn; and she saw the two men with the two dogs. The men were like two black dots on the white background of winter; and the dogs were like two ants scurrying about. That same night, distracted by Estelle’s silence on the entire chesterfield, curdled like milk, the idea hit her. “Now, why I didn’t think of that before? I so damn stupid!” She was trembling because she thought Estelle had heard her thoughts. The next day, she mentioned the idea to Dots, on the telephone. “I am going to find a room for Estelle. Expense and location don’t matter.”
“That’s a damn good idea, gal!” Dots went on to say, “She may be your sister, but you will have to pardon me if I say I don’t particularly like Estelle. What the hell she mean by calling up Boysie, asking him to help her become a landed immigrant? Estelle fresh!”
“She young.”
“Estelle in this country looking for man,” Dots said. She laughed and added, “But you don’t have to worry, gal. You don’t have no man for Estelle to take away.…” And so, it became obvious that Estelle and Dots weren’t favourites. Dots was envious of her beauty (Estelle was fascinating with a provocative body) and her greater intelligence. “Get her out, before she brings trouble in Mrs. Burrmann’s place, eh. Estelle harping ‘pon one thing. Canadian citizenship. She want it, by hook or by crook.” This was one time when Bernice didn’t really want to take Dots’s advice. It sounded like a threat. And she was further hurt, because Dots had hung up on her. It was the first time in three years. Bernice began to feel suspicious, and insecure: Dots knew something about Estelle; more than she had said. Bernice felt her friendship with Dots threatened. “But that ain’t true!” she said to herself. “Estelle isn’ going to leave Barbados and come up here in Canada to turn Dots from me. Sister, or no sister.”
The Meeting Point Page 14